


just to get me through the night till we're twins again

by Kaiyote



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Future Fic, Implied/Referenced Batjokes, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 15:20:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18449261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiyote/pseuds/Kaiyote
Summary: Jeremiah is already sat in the day room by the time Jerome strolls in—the same as he is every other morning, afternoon, and night.(AU where Jerome is still alive; set 10 years after the events of Ace Chemicals.)





	just to get me through the night till we're twins again

* * *

 

Jeremiah is already sat in the day room by the time Jerome strolls in—the same as he is every other morning, afternoon, and night.

"Anything in there today, broski?" Jerome asks, his face hovering in front of Jeremiah's. Saliva drips down Jeremiah's chin; Jerome takes a half step back, nose wrinkling in disgust. He taps Jeremiah's cheek lightly with a finger. No response. Nothing. Nada. He slaps the same cheek hard—hard enough that the force turns his head—but Jeremiah still doesn't even bat an eyelash. Nobody's home. He moves Jeremiah's head back to its former position and pats the cheek he'd just slapped with faux affection. "Maybe tomorrow, bro."

 

* * *

 

Lately, Jerome has felt something twitching underneath his skin, some kind of sparking electricity that sends a tiny shiver down his spine, and he just _knows_ that _something_ is going to happen soon. _But what?_ The question, the anticipation of an answer, is what keeps things interesting in a hellhole like Arkham.

 

* * *

 

Jeremiah is so _boring_ like this, day in and day out, though. Sure, it was fun at first seeing his brilliant (not as brilliant as he is, of course, or as handsome) brother reduced to a drooling invalid, but after ten years the shine's lost its luster. The spark's fizzled out.

Where's the fun in having proved Jeremiah's just as bad—just as _mad—_ as he is if he can't gloat about it and shove it in Jeremiah's face? How can he enjoy what Jeremiah's become, what he's made of him, the monster that Jeremiah's made of _himself_ if Jeremiah isn't even aware of his own ruination? What's winning if he can't revel in Jeremiah's loss? How can there be any excitement when he can't see the denial on Jeremiah's face, the spitting fury of refusal, the widening cracks in his resolve; then, ultimately, the defeat? The acceptance that they're the same? That they've _always_ been the same? What's the point if he can't get a reaction out of his brother?

(Finally, what's the point when no one even remembers who either of them are anymore?)

 

* * *

 

Jerome feels himself growing more and more restless as time passes by in the asylum. Not just from the boredom, the monotony, the routine, the lack of response from Jeremiah but from the damn _buzzing_ just underneath his skin. A tingling sensation spread throughout his body that just won't seem to quit. An _itch_ he can't _scratch_. Until one day, staring at Jeremiah's obnoxiously slack-jawed expression for the millionth time, he gets a horribly _wonderful_ idea. One that just might solve all their problems. And if it doesn't, well...

At least it'll be fun for him.

 

* * *

 

"Wakey, wakey," Jerome sing-songs, crouched over Jeremiah's supine form laid out on his bed, straddling his waist. He grabs Jeremiah loosely by the jaw with one hand and waggles his head back and forth. Jeremiah's head stays turned slightly to the side when he lets go, just where he left it. He sighs, drumming his fingers against Jeremiah's collarbone. "See, bro, I got this theory. Remember when we were kids and we found that old book of fairy tales and used to read 'em before we went to sleep? I'm thinking maybe you're like that little slut Briar Rose and here I am, the prince to wake you up." He gives a mock bow.

"Bu-ut..." He draws the word out in the same sing-song voice. "Somehow I don't think a kiss is gonna be enough to do the trick." He slaps both of his hands down suddenly on either side of Jeremiah's head and watches as Jeremiah's body bounces from the impact. "So, if you want me to stop, you better speak now or forever hold your peace." Jeremiah, unsurprisingly, says nothing. Jerome shrugs. "Your funeral." He chuckles to himself as he tugs down Jeremiah's pants and underwear, pulling them off and tossing them on the floor before following suit with his own clothing.

With all pretenses (and clothes) out of the way, he gets down to business; no need to be kind or considerate or careful at all. He kisses hard along Jeremiah's jaw, bites the crook of his neck, leaves scratch marks all down his sides and his back. He grips Jeremiah's wrists and arms and hips and thighs and every inch of skin he can get his hands on hard enough to ensure they'll be bruised come tomorrow. He _wants_ Jeremiah marked up, wants to see it for himself; he wants everyone else to see it, too. More importantly, he wants _Jeremiah_ to see it, to _feel_ it, to **know** what he did to him whenever he wakes the fuck up. ( _Wake up already!_ )

Jerome doesn't really bother with any kind of prep, either. After all, the point is to wake baby bro up, right? And what better way than a little bit of pain mixed with pleasure. (Well, maybe a lot more pain than pleasure.) He wipes some of the drool off Jeremiah's face, spits into his palm, and slicks himself up with that. It takes a few tries but he manages to shove the head of his cock into Jeremiah's hole then has to make a _very_ conscious effort to stop himself from going any further. He needs to stay focused and in control long enough to watch, to _savor_ this.

He peers into Jeremiah's eyes, gripping his hips tightly, and forces the rest of his cock in. Jeremiah gives no reaction. He thrusts shallowly a few times, eyes still glued to Jeremiah's and searching for any kind of sign, before speeding up when he feels whatever resistance is left in Jeremiah's body give. He wonders if this is Jeremiah's first time—if he's taking his virginity. Jerome grins at the thought, his wonderfully _horrible_ idea growing darker. He leans down till his lips are pressed right up against Jeremiah's ear.

"This your first time? I think it is. Did ya just never get around to it, too busy building mazes and hiding away from me all those years? Or were you just saving yourself for someone _special_?" At the word _special_ , he gives a particularly hard, angled thrust; Jeremiah's body gives a tiny jerk and—

_Oh_. _That's_ interesting. With how scarred up and damaged his brother's body is, Jerome didn't really think he'd actually be able to get a _response_ out of him, but Jeremiah's cock is definitely hardening. His eyes are still vacant and empty, but at least one part of his body seems to be waking up. Jerome gives another thrust at the same angle and watches the same reaction take place. He's sure he must just be hitting Jeremiah's prostate, but the thought that what he's _saying_ is finally what's getting to his brother just makes him laugh and spurs him on more.

"I think I know just who that _special someone_ was. Drove yourself mad over Brucie, didn't you, bro? I knew you would, too. That kid always did have something about him. Heard he's back in town. Bet you wish I was him, that he was the one fucking you now." Jerome pauses, grinning, an even more twisted idea forming in his head, before resuming a brutal pace. "Or maybe it was always the other way around? Maybe all that time you were chasing after Bruce you were wishing it was _me_."

Jerome falls silent, then. He's so close to coming now but he tries to hold back, wanting to draw this out for as long as possible. It's hard, though, when he can't stop imagining all the ways things _could_ be; for as much fun as fucking his limp rag doll of a brother is, he doesn't know what he'd rather be playing out more in reality: Jeremiah before the insanity gas, struggling under him, crying out in pain. Jeremiah before the bridges fell, fighting against him, snarling. Jeremiah before his great fall at Ace Chemicals, still in denial and barely able to stifle his moans of pleasure. Or Jeremiah as he is now but _awake_ , writhing under him, scarred face contorted in ecstasy, begging him for more, pushing back to meet every one of his thrusts, finally giving in to him. (That's a lie. He knows _exactly_ which one he wants the most.)

"Come on, Miah, I know you're in there." It occurs to Jerome that this is the first time in almost 25 years that he's called his brother by his name—by _that_ name. "I know you feel it." He pulls nearly all the way out before slamming back in. "That buzz." His hips snap forward violently, balls audibly slapping against Jeremiah's ass. "That electricity under your skin." He licks his palm and takes Jeremiah's hard cock in his hand, jacking him off in time with his thrusts. "We got the same blood running through us, remember? So I know you fucking feel it, just like I do." Jeremiah comes suddenly, body shuddering involuntarily underneath him and— _fuck_. Jerome is coming, too, hips stuttering as he fucks himself through his orgasm before stilling.

Jerome rests his head in the crook of Jeremiah's bitten neck, softening cock still buried in Jeremiah's ass, before finally pulling out. He leans up over Jeremiah, searching for a sign of life in his eyes, but there's still nothing. The buzz is still going strong underneath his own skin, too; if anything, stronger. In a momentary lapse of judgment, or maybe _in_ sanity, Jerome presses a kiss to Jeremiah's forehead and gently strokes his face. "Maybe tomorrow night, huh, Miah?"

 

* * *

 

Jerome strolls into the day room the next day, a spring in his step, ready for his routine morning ritual of harassing his catatonic brother. He kneels down next to him, already smiling, pleased with the visible proof of their (one-sided) encounter last night: the hickeys lining Jeremiah's jaw, the red bite mark clear as day on his neck, the bruises on his wrists. His smile fades, though, brows furrowing in concentration as he realizes that _something_ is different about this particular morning.

Jeremiah is blinking too often and breathing too fast and irregularly. His hands are clenched into loose fists in his lap instead of lax by his side. One of Jeremiah's eyes twitches, his gaze lazily but definitively tracking something; Jerome turns his head to see what's gotten his attention. On the tv bolted into the upper corner of the room, an anchor is yapping about some masked vigilante's sudden appearance in Gotham last night, striking fear into the hearts of criminals and whatnot, before it cuts to shaky footage of a guy dressed as a fucking _bat_.

Jerome lets out a bark of laughter at the sight but abruptly stops as a shiver runs down his spine; the buzzing that's been underneath his skin for a solid month building to a crescendo before quieting. He hears Jeremiah gasp and whips his head back around just in time to see a full body shudder run through him, too, and knows that, _yes._ This— _this_ _Batman_ —is exactly what's woken his little brother up from his stupor. This is what they've _both_ been waiting for.

Jerome smiles deviously, this time letting out a low chuckle of laughter. Jeremiah's eyes lock onto his, finally _seeing_ him after all these years. A smile to mirror his own forms on Jeremiah's lips and Jeremiah lets out a breath of laughter, rusty-sounding but still pitched higher than his own. One of Jeremiah's hands grasps weakly in his lap, fingers opening and closing; Jerome gets the message. He takes the hand into his own, palm to palm, fingers intertwined. They break their gaze with each other and turn to look back at the news simultaneously, both still laughing.

_Oh_ , they are going to have _so much_ fun _together_ with that _bat_.


End file.
